


beauty killer

by dollylux



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Genderqueer Jared Padalecki, M/M, Makeup Artist Jared, Shopping Malls, Stoner Jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 05:29:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7964368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared's got a crush on the most unlikely of boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	beauty killer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homo_pink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homo_pink/gifts).



> i have no idea where this is going, but it came from a late-night convo with miss homo-pink about our shared, longtime love of jeffree star. after sighing over him and his beautiful boyfriend nathan, we dreamed up a j2 au based on them.
> 
> so this is for homo-pink, j*, and nathan. <3

Jared didn’t start wearing makeup until he was tall enough to fight and win.

He’d always been skinny, ladder-jump ribs, coltish thighs, girl-bracelet wrists with big boy bones that promised one day, one day he’d be a man.

Only Jared had a secret. 

He’d look at people like his Daddy, like Pastor Robert, like Mr. Peterson at school, and he dreaded turning into them. Dreaded fur on his face and his chest and knuckles and around his boyjoy between his legs. Dreaded shaving in the mornings and beer bellies and thinning hair and the taste of beer. 

He’d loved so much more instead watching Dolly play her fingernails in _9 to 5_ , watching Anna Nicole horrify housewives with her big ambitions and her beautiful face and her ability not to flinch when she kissed half-dead old perverts. He loved the smell of his Mom’s makeup and the deft flicks of her wrist when she teased her hair and how she could change what she looked like every morning just by picking different colors for her eyelids, just by deciding eyeliner or no eyeliner, just by climbing up on the sink to get real close and tweeze her eyebrows into judgemental, seductive commas with perfect arches.

So what did little white trash boys who frosted their mouths with Avon on Sunday afternoons in secret playtimes in the bathroom do when they grew up?

They shaved off their eyebrows, dyed their hair the most careful of lavenders, and learned to suck cock like a religion, that’s what.

 

He’s twenty now, so far from the stale, lifeless air of San Antonio that it feels like he left the planet to find his own kind, even though he’d only ventured about 70 miles northeast to Austin. There are a hundred differences between San Antonio and Austin, a thousand, but the most important one is that Austin didn’t care when Jared was _Jared_.

Even if that meant wearing stilettos that pushed him right up to seven feet tall, having a makeup collection that he has had his life threatened over before, and going by the name that’s been tucked secret in his still-prominent ribs since he could stand on his tiptoes and see himself in his Mom’s vanity mirror:

Jared Heart. 

He’d practiced it thousands of times in notebooks and in love letters to future husbands, and he’d perfected the downward flick of his heart until it looked sharp as a blade.

Four motions, pen caught up in a long, delicate hand, violet-tipped nails pointy as claws:

J<3.

 

The Domain’s employee entrance is like being backstage at a concert, a long, darkened hallway leading you toward your dream: the mall. Nearly 100 stores containing clothes, jewelry, shoes, and makeup. It’s Jared’s own personal vision of heaven, give or take the presence of a dozen or so fat, veiny cocks with dream boys attached to them.

He walks with authority through the ghost-town mall, his high heels clicking with sharp snaps on the tile. He’d tried for years to have Dolly’s walk, to strut like a big-titted five foot tall blonde goddess, but God had different plans for Jared. He slinks instead, his mile-long legs waxed and lotioned to silken perfection, carrying him with the studied grace of runway models, his more well-known kindred.

Shoulders back, hips out, mouth pulled into a fuckable, full pout slightly enhanced by lipstick and doctors. Today’s shade: Candy Yum-Yum. Matte neon pink. Come and get it.

His MAC necklace clinks against his ballerina-envied collarbone as he pulls the keys out of his purse, and he waits until after he bends over at the waist to slide the key into the lowest lock near the floor before he straightens up slow and deliberate as a stripper and glances back over his shoulder.

There’s the boy, the one who works at the record store, the one with dishwater blond hair that hides unwashed under a black beanie and scruff on his pretty face and bright green eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep and a steady diet of weed and Red Bull.

He’s wearing a Tool shirt under a grey and black flannel, and Jared has never seen him in another pair of jeans or shoes. He’s sprawled on the bench like it’s his couch, full mouth wrapped around his energy can drink lid and his sleepy eyes on Jared.

His name tag told Jared a month ago that the boy’s name is Jensen.

“Mornin’,” he offers casually as he turns the top lock, making his 44 Lashed eyes look extra by-the-hour motel room, an obsessively practiced look he’d gotten down to a science before he ever set foot inside a high school.

“M--” Jensen starts, lips wet with that sweetened poison he drinks, that Jared has started to sip through a straw every morning while he gets ready, just so he knows what Jensen tastes like. Jensen clears his throat, rubs a hand over his eyes, and tries again. “Mornin’.”

Jared’s high-waisted black shorts are slut-short, but his black hose soften the scandal while still letting him show off his legs. His muscle tee is so tight his nipples nearly poke through the fabric, but it’s worn to show off his tattoos, all of his past-kept secrets inked onto his skin in a visually stunning, painful story. His hair is the purple of fairytales, of childhood dreams, the most delicate of lavenders, styled to nearly cover one eye.

He strives to look unreal, impossible, just one step to the left of a man’s nastiest fantasies. He finally has a face that men crave to come on. He’s just got to find one worthy of ruining his perfect makeup.

He takes his time putting his keys away, giving Jensen plenty of sluggish, half-dreaming time to stare at his barely legal-porn tight ass, and the half-smile, half-smirk that he tosses back to him in a goodbye is timed to perfection, photo-perfect finish.

It’s their ritual, the way they start their dance every single morning. Jared is open now, a bloomed flower in Jensen’s sunlight, and he’s ready to preen and strut and pose for eight hours under Jensen’s watchful green eyes from across the way at the record shop.

Jared’s got a crush.


End file.
